Issue 20 - 5 December, 2000
by Diana Waring
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A Wee Christmas Tale Dear Friends, A few weeks ago, my daughter, Melody, sat at our old upright piano playing hauntingly beautiful Christmas songs. As the melodies cascaded around my heart, I tearfully sat in wonder on the floor sorting out lamb's fleece from ten years ago. Why on earth would a relatively sensible person willingly sit enshrouded in unwashed animal clippings? Well, since you asked... In 1990, as part of an Easter musical at our church, we had borrowed a ram lamb from a lady who raised old-English breeds of sheep. During performances, this particularly endearing Cotswold literally stole the show. You could hear people in the audience whispering, "Is that lamb real?" "No, it's not possible..." At about that point, the lamb would let out a mournful "Baaaaaaa" and the entire crowd would sigh, "Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh." When the show was over, he had innocently stolen my heart, so my family purchased him from his birth farm. We named him "Lewis" (after C.S. Lewis), and he was known from that time as "Lewis Lamb." He acted a wee bit like Mary's lamb as he followed me everywhere that I should go - including up the stairs to our kitchen (click, click, click)! In the early morning, when the breath of our outside animals could still be seen lingering in the air, I would sit on a haystack and watch Lewis Lamb eat. His gloriously silver-to-black coat would beckon me, and a cheerful half hour would go by as I ran my lanolin-coated fingers through his wool. Ah... Visions of spinning his beautiful wool danced in my head, followed by dreams of knitting this precious substance into to-die-for sweaters, hats and mittens. Advertising slogans - "From Sheep to Shop" - along with business ideas for home crafted textiles swarmed through my waking hours as my wee lamb grew. Somewhere along the way, I met several local spinners who offered to teach me the time-honored craft of spinning wool. I had the wool production factory living in my barn. I had the burning zeal of a new convert. I had the dreams that would sustain me. I'd even heard testimony of a home school mom who claimed that spinning saved one's sanity! All I lacked was the actual spinning wheel. Enter... my mother. This precious lady blessed my family time after time, year after year. She delighted in giving us things we could not afford. The Christmas of 1990, with Lewis Lamb and his wool on my mind, I asked my mother for a spinning wheel. She smiled gleefully and told me she would see what she could do. I thought it was in the can. A done deal. Take it to the bank. Finished. Christmas Eve, 1990. 'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house... something was going on that I was not allowed to see. My mother and my husband ordered me to my room while they performed the peddler-opening-his-pack routine. Clunk. Clunk-clunk. Giggles. Chuckles. Clunk. Wide-eyed, though very secretive enthusiasm on the part of my family. Hmmm. Christmas morning, 1990. Bounding downstairs in a noticeably recognizable imitation of a four year old, I suddenly stopped dead in my tracks. Sitting in front of our Christmas tree was not what I expected. Instead of an old-fashioned, sit-down-and-try-me spinning wheel, I found a huge, intimidating four-harness floor loom. Gulp. Smile big for pictures. Gulp. Gulp. I had never in my wildest dreams pictured myself behind the shaft of a loom. I didn't know anyone who did weaving. I didn't know anyone who KNEW anyone who did weaving. And, trust me on this, it looked so complicated sitting in it's resplendent state that I was fairly certain one would need a Ph.D. in order to begin working on it. Gulp. Smile big for pictures, again. Gulp. Gulp. When I found my voice, I enquired in my most delighted (albeit somewhat strained) tones, "Mom! Where on earth did you find this loom?" She giggled, and with a look of absolute, cat-in-the-cream satisfaction said, "A friend was moving out of town, and since she had three looms, she decided to sell one of them. I got a GREAT deal on it!!!" Ok. I can stretch. This was simply an incredible opportunity. If only I could find out where loom-users lived... and taught... "Thanks, Mom. I'll never, NEVER forget this Christmas!" The first thing I learned was that I would never, NEVER be able to afford the weaving yarns I found in yarn shops. Though it was beautiful beyond measure, the price was greater than our tax returns! The second thing I learned was that the only place in the Portland metro area where one could learn to weave on floor looms had a three year waiting list. Period. The end. I signed up - and two years later we moved. To South Dakota. Just before we moved, while still living on the outskirts of Portland, Oregon, we were told by caring friends that we really should have a shearer de-wool Lewis Lamb. It was a sight to behold as mountains of fabulously colored silver, brown and black wool fell to the ground. Suddenly, Lewis Lamb was a skinny wee critter. I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself. I think it made him a little crazy. One afternoon, my children and a friend came running into the house with the guest boy nearly hysterical. "That..." hiccup... "lam-m-m-m-m-b"... hiccup..."tried to..." hiccup... "kill me!!!!!!" We finally unraveled the woolly tale of a lamb gone ba-aa-aa-d. Lewis Lamb had seen this little boy as a potential partner in the "Let's Butt Heads Really Hard" game, and had tried him on for size. Several times. All across the corral. Well, one can not have rampaging lambs attacking one's guests. It has an impact on the hospitality, you might say. So, for the sake of our battered friend and his raging mother, we promised to take Lewis Lamb to the auction the next day. And, suddenly, all I had to remind me of my wee lamb and my dreams of tactile glory was a plastic garbage bag of wool. (Even now, as I write this, I am sobbing like a baby over my loved and lost Lewis Lamb and the dreams he represented.) For the next several years, I mentioned spinning wheels when Christmas and my birthday rolled around. No one with any purchasing power got the hint. My loom became an object of conversation when people walked into our home: "Oh, how beautiful. Do you weave?" "No." Glare. It takes too long to try to describe how I had really wanted a spinning wheel so that I could spin after taking lessons from the myriads of people I knew all around me who actually knew HOW to spin, but that my precious mother had gifted me with a far more valuable machine that I knew absolutely nothing about how to use because no one I had ever met EVER had any idea how one would weave nor did they EVER know anyone who even knew anyone who knew HOW to weave. When we moved to South Dakota, we brought our plastic garbage bag of woolen memories from Lewis Lamb with us... just in case. But, after ten years, I was pretty certain that the moths, or mice, or mildew had gotten the best of it while in storage. It was probably time to toss, though I hadn't gotten around to it yet. But something altogether wonderful happened to me while I was in New Zealand. Actually, many, many, many wonderful things happened to me while I was in New Zealand, but this was a very special, can't-even-believe-this-is-real experience. With our around-the-country-host, Craig Smith, we visited Wellington, the beautiful Kiwi capitol city. As we were driving to the city, Craig pulled out five envelopes that had our names written on them - one for each of the Waring family. He said that someone had given them to him to give to us. That was nice. A kind gesture. A card of encouragement. But, dear friends, it wasn't just a card. Each envelope also contained $100 NZ with a note instructing each one of us to use the money to purchase something that would remind us of New Zealand. Wow! I was stunned... and truly thankful to our unknown benefactor. Just outside of the parking garage in an out-of-the-way alley close to downtown, we spotted a used book shop. Well, you know me: I can no more pass by a used book shop than a dachshund can pass by a steak bone. In like a flash, we just barely noticed the sign that said, "Closing, everything 50% off." I found a couple of paperback treasures and went to purchase them. After the tired shopkeeper added up the sticker prices, he said, "And fifty percent off of that total." Shocked, I asked him why. He reminded me of the sign posted outside the door. Shutting down. Closing up shop. Everything goes. Cheap. Hmmm. "And... um... how much for that dusty spinning wheel sitting over there?" His eyebrows perked up a little. "This one? Well, now, let's see. It's $170 NZ right now. What say... $80 NZ?" (That amounted to about $40 US.) My beloved husband, Bill, looked over about this time and said, "How are you going to get it back home to the U.S.?" Craig announced, "Don't worry, Diana. If you want this, we'll make sure it gets home to you." I looked at Bill. He smiled. I looked at Craig. He smiled. I looked at the $100 NZ in my hand and then at the shop keeper. He smiled. I said, "It's a DEAL!"... and smiled. Picking up this precious ten-year-awaited dream, I carefully nestled it in my arms and headed back to the car. As I did, the Lord showed me that my dreams were precious to Him, too. And it was His great joy to provide me with this unlooked-for fulfillment of that wee dream of spinning. After months of traveling in the U.S. and Canada, we finally were able to let the dust settle as we rediscovered our home in South Dakota. In September, I went up to the university to watch Isaac (our son) performing outdoors for a festival of arts. Among the many artists who were displaying their handicrafts was a spinner. Oooohhhh!!!! "Hi. Do you teach spinning lessons?" "Yes. I have a class starting up next week. I have room for you if you would like to come." Unbelievable. Without even having to jump through hoops or do cartwheels, I found a spinner who could teach me. For the next four weeks, through the month of October, I learned how to spin roving and top; how to create worsted, semi-worsted and woolen; how to comb fleece and how to card; how to use a lazy kate and a niddy-noddy. It was as glorious, as fulfilling, as sanity-inducing as I had always dreamed. And, not only that, my spinning teacher told me that there were several, SEVERAL weavers in the area who would be able to help me learn to weave on a floor loom. Wonder of wonders. Miracle of miracles. But the reason I decided to write this particular Christmas newsletter for you is because of what happened with the lamb's wool. Bill and I finally made it over to our long-term storage spot where we keep all the stuff that doesn't know where to live in our house (yet!). In the electric-light-bulb-glare of a freezing cold, snowy November night, I opened the plastic garbage bag of Lewis Lamb wool. Now, since taking the spinning class, I knew what to look for. I knew how to judge. And what I saw was not impressive. With bits of hay and stubble throughout, this fleece looked (and smelled!) like it was garbage can fodder. No moths or mice or mildew, but it did not seem like the nice wool I had been working with. I looked at Bill and with a heavy heart started to say, "Let's just throw this away." But I couldn't do it - ten years of lugging a dream around has an effect on a person. Maybe it would be easier to throw it away if I took it home and examined it more carefully. We brought our bag of woolen memories home with us that night, and I sat down on the floor next to the piano (which sits in the room with my loom and spinning wool) and gingerly sorted Lewis Lamb. Covered in dirt and dust from the dregs of fleece, I began to discover, here and there, bits of wool that were redeemable. Before I knew it, there was a huge mound of usable, gloriously silver and brown and black wool waiting for me to spin. It was at this point that Melody came in with a new book of Christmas songs and began to play. I was suddenly transported back to that Christmas ten years ago when I had longed for a spinning wheel. With tears streaming down my face, I realized that I had nearly thrown my dreams away because of some stubble and thorns mixed with Lewis Lamb's wool, and that I was only a few hours away from attaining the fulfillment of my heart's desire. (While writing this I can see, sitting on a table nearby, a beautiful brown skein of Lewis Lamb yarn all ready for knitting.) What about you? Do you have dreams that have been stored away in a plastic garbage bag for years? Have you given up hope of ever seeing them come true? Has life kept going and left them in the dust? Dear friends, if I may counsel you, don't throw away your dreams. Your dreams may be the "I've wished for this since I was a child" variety. Or, perhaps, there is a tiresome situation you face in the present, and the remedy is something as wispy and intangible as a dream. (We experienced that when my husband was working a "normal" job and we longed to be able to travel with our family!) Right now these dreams might be covered in dirt and thorns, or hidden away in a closing-down book shop, but they are worth the wait... and the work. In fact, they are gloriously worth it! Proverbs says that hope deferred makes the heart sick. But when the desire is come, it is a tree of life. The Psalmist wrote, "Delight yourself in the Lord and He will give you the desires of your heart." Amen. Happy Christmas to all. And to all, a G'day! Blessings, Diana Return to the List of Newsletter Issues

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